


Trivial Pursuits

by gildthelilli



Series: Trivial Pursuits [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Drunkenness, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Original Character(s), Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Sexual Harassment, i sure love my sleazy OC characters dont i jeez, tagging that just in case basically zira gets hit on by a creepy dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22297336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildthelilli/pseuds/gildthelilli
Summary: “Here’s some Wilde for you,” said Josh, sliding his hand upwards. “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”...Josh’s hand was at the crease of Aziraphale’s thigh. It gave a rough squeeze. Oh. Oh no.“No, really, I’m flattered, but I don’t -“ Aziraphale was starting to get desperate. Some excuse. Anything to shake this human off. His heart was beating fast, his hands began to tremble.“I think you do,” leered Josh. “Look at you. Don’t resist, Zira. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.”“Joshua, I am not interested, you insufferable man…” Aziraphale trailed off as he looked around, frantic now. He looked to the bar, where a man – or something man-shaped in tight black pants - was pocketing his wallet and grabbing the bottle of scotch from the counter. Aziraphale swallowed, watching as Crowley began to make his way back over to the table.“I have a boyfriend,” blurted Aziraphale.----Aziraphale and Crowley go drinking at pub trivia when a man from another team takes an interest in Aziraphale. Crowley is not impressed. Shenanigans ensue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Trivial Pursuits [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604977
Comments: 83
Kudos: 375





	1. Q1. What Was Othello's Fatal Flaw?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miraworos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/gifts), [AngelcatWish3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelcatWish3/gifts).



> My writing is always a gratitude-filled love letter to anyone who reads it; let’s hear it for my valentines:
> 
> Thank you to my patient beta Mira (@miraworos) for championing me through this, if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have got nearly as far. You deserve so much credit for taking my vague ideas and piecing them together into a coherent plot for me to flesh out. Thank you to my real life best friend TJ (@AngelcatWish3) for continual support, listening to me talk about this damn plot over several Japanese and Italian dinners, and second opinions whenever I happen to demand them. Thank you finally to lureadwright on tumblr for helping me out when I got stuck. You guys are the real MVPs.

Aziraphale gazed out over the crowded pub, freshly seated at a new table that was free of debris of their night of getting positively pigeon-eyed. They’d had to move after covering the last table in bottles and glasses, and agreed it was more convenient to be in shouting distance of the bar anyway. Aziraphale caught himself thinking about how much he enjoyed Crowley’s corporation as he eyed the demon from his seat. He would enjoy Crowley in any body, of course. But this one was just so… correct. The shock of red hair pierced through the moody lighting of orange Edison bulbs strung from the ceiling. His gaze dropped to the demon’s hips that bent at an angle that should have been beyond the bounds of physics, and the long limbs that looked like they could wrap around- No! No, he wasn’t going to go there. He worked far too hard to let himself slip like this just because he had drank a bottle or three of vodka. Aziraphale felt hot again. His mouth was tingly, and his thoughts felt like they were floating in jelly, thick and hard to grasp. He became aware of the fact he was gripping his thigh, which wasn’t making his feelings go away at all.

There was a stranger standing at his table. A man. He had his hair in a bun and it seemed like an extra flannel shirt tied around his waist, and gave off the air that his breakfast always consisted of something deconstructed from an overpriced coffee shop. Aziraphale looked at him, his head heavy.

“Hi,” said the stranger, “bad luck on the trivia.”

“Oh, ah. Yes, quite. Didn’t go ‘s’well as I’d hoped, I’m afraid, ah...?”

“I’m Josh,” said Josh.

“Josh,” repeated Aziraphale.

He glanced back at Crowley, who was still having trouble getting the attention of the bartender. She was running herself ragged in the sudden rush, by the looks of it, as tipsy patrons had descended from their trivia tables to demand refreshment. Aziraphale made a mental note to send her a blessing of some sort. She deserved that much, as she attempted to do the work of four staff on her own.

“I’m guessing you have a name,” said Josh lightheartedly, breaking Aziraphale’s train of thought.

“Oh, y-yes. How rude of me. M‘n’aziraphale,” said Aziraphale. Oh dear, maybe that last margarita had been one too many.

“’Ziraphale. You know, someone like you; I feel like I would definitely remember your face. This your first time here?” Josh asked, leaning on the table. He was close enough now that Aziraphale could study his face. The man was in his 30s, with manicured facial hair on a square jawline that twisted around a confident smile. His hooded hazel eyes caught the light and looked into Aziraphale.

“Yes, yes ’tis,” said Aziraphale.

“Ah!” laughed Josh. He gently hit Aziraphale’s arm with the back of his hand. “That explains it. Don’t worry, we were all virgins once.”

Aziraphale blushed, then looked at his hands. “I wanted to come for the one about… The one about litertrich - the book questions.”

“Oh! That was a good night, you missed out! They went all out for that one, they did a whole Shakespearean theme. Had the bar staff dress up and attempt to speak in old English.”

Josh was a little… familiar, for a man he’d just met, but he was interested in books, so Aziraphale chatted happily to his new friend for a few minutes. He liked human company, after all, even if that human company seemed to be a little handsy.  _ Some humans are just more physical _ , reasoned Aziraphale.  _ Like how a kiss on the cheek is a standard greeting on the Continent. _ They talked about Shelley and Byron, of historical inaccuracies and scandals. Things began to take a different tone, however, when they got onto the topic of Oscar Wilde.

“You almost talk like you knew him personally, Zira.”

Aziraphale smiled, remembering parties with dandies and champagne, cakes and society, in which he had stolen a few private moments with a certain notorious literary figure. “Yes well… you might say I’m… intimately acquainted.”

“Got a big collection at the shop, have you?”

“First editions.” Private moments had their rewards.

“Impressive,” smiled Josh.

There was a hand on Aziraphale’s knee. Worse, it was attached to the man smiling in front of him. Josh leant in close, smelling like a sweet mix of woody notes and a blossom of some kind. Oh. Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he took in a breath.

“Here’s some Wilde for you,” said Josh, sliding his hand upwards. “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

Aziraphale, at this moment, was many things. Inebriated, repressed, slightly conflicted on whether some Divine intervention was necessary. What he wasn’t, however, was a complete idiot.

“Josh, I think there’s been a -ah, miscommunication.“ said Aziraphale, grabbing Josh’s hand to move it. If he was honest with himself, he’d had a small voice telling him that that he was being courted and flirted with for a while. What’s more is that he’d been  _ flattered _ by it.

“Really, Zira? I don’t think there has,” said Josh, refusing to budge, “you’ve been lapping this up.”

Aziraphale’s stomach lurched. He felt insulted, but only because it was the truth. He’d liked the attention. He was intrigued to see what it was like to feel desired. However, Aziraphale was so rarely told himself the truth. That much was so plain right now.

As their conversation had progressed, he’d told himself that it was okay because he was making a friend, and there was no law against having friends. He’d told himself that it meant nothing, it was just an experiment to see what this felt like. He told himself he was single, and he could do as he pleased, because it wasn’t as if anyone else in his life was courting him. But as the man’s hand crept closer, Aziraphale felt like he had a whole egg stuck in his throat. His body was tense. He didn’t want this. Well, he did. But the scene in his mind exclusively involved a skinny redhead in snakeskin boots, and not a strange human. And maybe the reason he’d indulged the human’s advances was plain denial of this fact, trying desperately to recast the star of his fantasy.

Josh’s hand was at the crease of Aziraphale’s thigh. It gave a rough squeeze. Oh. Oh no.

“No, really, I’m flattered, but I don’t -“ Aziraphale was starting to get desperate. Some excuse. Anything to shake this human off. His heart was beating fast, his hands began to tremble.

“I think you do,” leered Josh. “Look at you. Don’t resist, Zira. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.”

“Joshua, I am  _ not _ interested, you insufferable man…” Aziraphale trailed off as he looked around, frantic now. He looked to the bar, where a man – or something man-shaped in tight black pants - was pocketing his wallet and grabbing the bottle of scotch from the counter. Aziraphale swallowed, watching as Crowley began to make his way back over to the table.

“I have a boyfriend,” blurted Aziraphale. His heart was pounding harder now, if it ever even possible. “Him.”

Shit. Crowley had seen him point. Aziraphale knew it, he definitely saw an eyebrow go up. Shit, shit, fuck. This whole charade hung on Crowley playing along with no notice. What was he  _ thinking _ ?

“That washed-up goth twink?” said Josh, looking where Aziraphale was pointing. The skepticism was, frankly, almost as insulting as the remarks themselves, but at least Josh’s hand reappeared above the table. “ _ Him? _ Really? Him and you.”

And what, exactly, did Aziraphale expect to happen now? It’s not as if he could just yell across the pub: “by the way, Crowley, if anyone asks, we’re in love, have been for many years!” He imagined the demon outright laughing at him. Asking what the Heaven he was on about. Shoving him against the wall and demanding answers…

“Yes, that one right there who was walking towards us a moment ago. Him. So if you don’t mind-“

An arm thrust itself between them, smacking down a bottle of single malt scotch, followed by two old fashioned glasses. An arm slipped around Aziraphale’s waist, strong and protective. Josh momentarily looked like someone had slapped him.

“Ssorry I took ssso long,” said a sibilant voice next to Aziraphale’s ear. “You gonna introduce me to y’new friend, angel?”


	2. Q2. In Greek Mythology, What Emotion Does Phthonos Personify?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all are ready for some Crowley POV. They both think that this is their own idea. Good thing they're morosexual.

It had been ten minutes and no luck. Every time Crowley thought he had an in, someone would cut in beside him and accost the bartender, and every time they were finished cutting him off, Crowley made sure they happened to walk through the suspicious sticky patch on the floor. He had to amuse himself _somehow_ in the whole demonic department and, for a drunken lark, this was almost as good as gluing coins to the footpath. Almost. The bartender was finally walking his way, but before he could order, a group of pink and plastic penis-clad bachelorettes pushed in. They ordered six complicated cocktails that each had to be prepared in a different cocktail shaker. Crowley threw his head up and let out a frustrated growl, then cast a glance across a couple tables over to where Aziraphale had made himself comfortable.

A little too comfortable, by the look of it.

He was chatting merrily to a strange man who looked like he had a record collection that had never actually been played and drank activated charcoal-infused juice[1]. Crowley’s jaw tensed. There was no rule that Aziraphale couldn’t talk to anyone else. And he definitely was not feeling jealous. It was just that in this moment, Crowley felt the urge to break every bone in this human’s hands so that he couldn’t touch Aziraphale ever again. Stock-standard demonic thoughts about harming humans, if you asked him. Absolutely nothing to do with jealousy. 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and sparkled, his mouth rounded into a sentence that Crowley just knew began with “Oh! Well…” and his hands began to gesture as he recounted a story. The slimy bastard must have asked about the history of some book or other. Or about the bakery around the corner, one of the two. The man said something Crowley couldn’t hear, and they both laughed. Josh touched Aziraphale’s arm. Crowley’s stomach dropped like a guillotine blade. Something ugly gripped his chest, and his irises bloomed into something distinctly more reptilian.

Aziraphale’s happiness lit up a room so brightly that Crowley’s ability to see in the dark was almost obsolete whenever they were together. There was a sheer _radiance_ that emanated from him whenever he smiled, like the angel’s halo was threatening to pop into existence from the metaphysical plane at any moment. It was a particular mixture of disgustingly _angelic_ and delightful, and Crowley had acquired a specific taste for it over the years. Unfortunately, he thought, looking over to them, the humans also picked up on it and got a little intoxicated by it, even if they didn’t fully understand why. 

He would never wish Aziraphale not to laugh. It was the cockroach that was causing the laughter that was the problem. Now that Crowley had started noticing the touches, he couldn’t focus on anything except them. He felt himself growing angrier with each one. A playful swat with the back of the hand. _Get your greasy human hands off._ A forearm grip when something entertaining was said. _Don’t you dare, you weasel_ . Aziraphale laughing and the man leaning in closer with no regard for personal space. _Touch him any more and you will regret being born_. 

He didn’t register a voice talking to him until an arm waved in front of his face from across the bar.

“Excuse me? Sir? Hello, can I help you? Hey, sorry ‘bout the wait, what can I get you?”

Certain ideas were trying to break out of the prison Crowley had wrestled them into over the years; Anthony J Crowley’s Top Security Facility for Dangerous and Recidivist Thoughts. Crowley kept them locked up tightly, surrounded the prison with a moat of denial, and filled the moat with alligators made of self-hatred and fear, just to be safe.

“Sir?”

Crowley snapped back to reality. _Finally._ He ordered a bottle of Aziraphale’s favourite Scotch and got two fresh glasses, and the bartender busied herself trying to find the specific brand Crowley asked for.

In what was becoming a sort of nervous twitch, Crowley glanced back over to Aziraphale. The slimy bastard was sliding his hand up a thick thigh.

Alarm bells. Jailbreak: _MY ANGEL._

Crowley had to do something. Aziraphale was clearly protesting. There was a familiar look on the angel’s face; big eyes that had once stared out of a prison cell in France, a thin mouth that had once tried to bargain with Nazis, raised eyebrows that had watched his friend dragged off by angels in a London park. 

The demon smacked a wad of money on the counter, and grabbed the bottle. This human was going to wake up screaming for the rest of his life if Crowley could help it. Better yet, come down with chronic sleep paralysis. Can’t scream even though you want to. He could think over the finer details later, for now, the operation was simply to separate man from angel. He had a plan.

Aziraphale was pointing at him. Slimy Bastard looked over, somewhat incredulous, and his hand reappeared, safely away from Aziraphale’s thigh. _Oh._ Oh. Unless he was an idiot, Aziraphale was actually _initiating_ this. _Rescue me_ . He raised an eyebrow. _Some things never change, angel._

God-- Sata- Fuck, this had better work. If he wasn’t a demon, he’d be praying to a higher power that he wasn’t misreading signs. He made a snap decision to detour around the tables in order to circle Aziraphale and approach from behind. Better to spring this on them both, avoid any conversation that could blow this.

Crowley felt his breath catch in his throat a little more with every step closer. Thankfully he didn’t actually need to breathe, otherwise he would be turning a rather fantastic shade of puce. It was taking all of his concentration to keep his cool, put one foot in front of the other. Hoped that Aziraphale would understand and not pull away, or yelp at him, because if he was going fast before this moment, things were about to hit maximum overdrive.

 _“Him?_ Really? Him and you.” said Slimy Bastard

Showtime.

Crowley shoved an arm between the two of them, thinking about how if Slimy Bastard happened to be glassed in the process, well then, it was his fault for not moving out of the way, and slammed the bottle of scotch onto the table. The other arm pulled Aziraphale into his side. He felt positively electric, his skin was buzzing from the contact. He could smell Aziraphale’s shampoo, a floral scent dancing on the air and mixing with the smell of spirits. He wondered if he was allowed to nestle his chin in Aziraphale’s soft curls. If the rules of the game allowed it. 

“Sorry, I took so long,” said Crowley, trying his best to pour six thousand years of feelings into five little words. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your new friend, _Angel?_ ”

He wondered how far he could push this. How far Aziraphale was willing to go. Only one way to find out, he thought. He’d show that slimeball how to romance an angel.

* * *

[1] Crowley had taken credit for the rise of activated charcoal products and only now did he feel the strange urge to distance himself from it as much as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure this is gonna go real well.


	3. Q3. What Quality Did Aristotle Claim To Belong To "Reasonable Men"?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all are ready for some ANGST this chapter. Bloody stubborn idiots.

_ Crowley.  _ Aziraphale thanked God for Her mercy before realising… Crowley was pressed in beside him. Chin pressed to Aziraphale’s mop of white curls. He felt like he was burning up at every touch. It wasn’t a bad feeling at all.

“Angel…” repeated Josh under his breath, eyes wide, finally believing Aziraphale.

Aziraphale regained himself. He had a mission to accomplish.

“Oh… You’re back, dear. I was getting worried. Josh, this is Anthony,” said Aziraphale, deliberately using Crowley’s human name; more intimate that way. Josh mumbled something about it being nice to meet him.

Aziraphale finally gave himself permission to show a hint of the feelings he’d been battling all night. Doe eyes, a sappy smile. Crowley grinned back, but Aziraphale could see something darker than joy in it. A challenge.

“Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I angel? I go to the bar and you’ve already put yourself back on the market,” crooned the demon, as his fingertips brushed Aziraphale’s chin upwards and pressed a chaste peck on the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth.  _ Oh. _

The room shattered. Aziraphale felt his eyes widen. His heart flutter. Crowley had… kissed him. Just like that. He realised he wasn’t sure if he’d just thought that ‘oh’ to himself or whether he’d exhaled it. It didn’t matter.

“Can’t blame ’em, though,” He was still nose-to-cheek with the angel. Aziraphale thought he saw a wink from behind dark Valentino sunglasses. Oh. Yes. This was nice. This felt like coming home to the bookshop after a long assignment elsewhere. Or a warm bath after a rough day.

Aziraphale fought the urge to turn his head just that degree more. Part his lips. Invite Josh to hang around them permanently so Aziraphale could melt obediently into more of… whatever this arrangement was. But then Crowley moved away. Right. Of course. This was an act. Doing what needed to be done to pull this off. It didn’t change the fact that part of him felt ready to discorporate.

Josh finally took the hint and straighten himself up, and Aziraphale felt he could breathe again. He began to fuss with his clothes, straightening his bowtie, collar, lapels, sleeves. It helped him feel together, this little routine. Like he was straightening his mind out as he went.

Josh started to turn away in defeat. Crowley held out a hand that blocked Josh from leaving. The predator wasn’t done playing with its prey.

“Well, don’t lemme interrupt, Josh; what exactly were you ssaying just now? I’d love to hear it.”

“Oh just … books. Oscar Wilde-“ said Josh, trying to save face.

“Never cared for him,” declared Crowley. “Pretentious prick. Any other literary opinions you need to discuss,  _ Josh, _ or are we done here?”

“I-“ said Josh.

“Yeah, I thought so. C’mon, angel, let’s go somewhere quieter.”

Crowley grabbed the scotch in one hand, and Aziraphale’s arm in the other, and tugged him towards the door.

*

“Crowley…” pleaded Aziraphale as he stumbled out of the pub. The demon was marching for the Bentley which was parked on the footpath.

“Get in the car,” snapped Crowley, opening the passenger door.

“Crowley, I may tolerate your driving most of the time but I will not let you drive inebriated-”

Aziraphale felt the world shift the moment the words left his lips. Crowley stiffened, his big eyes peeking over his sunglasses.

“Oh you won’t  _ let me _ ? I don’t need your  _ permissssion, _ angel,” he spat.

“No, no… I wasn’t trying to imply…”

“You clearly don’t need mine to do as you please.”

And like that, the angel’s assurances died on his tongue. Aziraphale  _ knew _ he was being baited. Crowley had a habit of finding excuses for himself to run away when things got too much. It was always the same narrative: Crowley perceives he might be hurt or abandoned. Crowley takes control of the situation by hurting back in a way that will  _ cause  _ abandonment. Crowley gets to confirm his suspicions. Crowley runs away. 

Aziraphale, on a good day, could tell you this. On a good day, Aziraphale could tell you Crowley needs reassurance in phase one to stop the narrative from self-fulfilling. But Aziraphale was not having a good day right now. Aziraphale was drunk, and full of complicated feelings. Aziraphale, frankly, felt like utter  _ shit _ . So Aziraphale said:

“Well, then, I’m glad we’re on the same page. Good evening, Crowley.”

And with tears stinging at his eyes, he turned unsteadily on his heel and started to walk away into the night.


	4. Envy is described as coveting what someone else has. What is the reaction called when one senses a threat to one's own posessions?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley chases down an angel and makes an ass of himself again. Short bridging chapter for y'all today.

“ANGEL!”

Crowley threw himself into the car as Aziraphale took off around a corner.

Shit.

Shit, shit shit.

Crowley pressed his head to the steering wheel and let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a dry sob. Why was he  _ like this _ ? Too fast. Too impulsive on every count. Swallowing the sick feeling rising in his throat, he turned the key of the Bentley, chucked the bottle of scotch he was still clutching onto the passenger seat, and put his foot to the floor. A far too familiar voice wailed over the sound of the engine as he took off from the curb:

_ Save me, save me, save me! I can't face this life alone… _

The demon let out a groan and smacked a fist over the CD player buttons. It paused a second, before starting the song again.

“Fine, be that way _ , _ ” he scowled at the car as he scanned the Saturday night crowd that was filling the footpath.  _ Can’t have gotten that bloody far _ , he thought as he swerved through the traffic.

It only took a few minutes of driving (albeit some of the longest minutes of Crowley’s immortal life) to spot a halo of white curls in an oatmeal overcoat weaving through a loitering crowd who were smoking outside a bar. He looked like a flower that had sprung up through the cracks in the pavement and was rather disturbed to find himself among the weeds. At the sound of the engine, the angel froze, staring pointedly ahead as the passers-by stared pointedly at him.

Crowley stuck his head out of the window, along with most of his torso.

“Angel, this is ridiculous. Just get in.”

If Crowley ever needed a reminder that Aziraphale was a warrior of Heaven, Guardian of the Eastern Gate and Angel of The Lord, this was it. Aziraphale didn’t need a flaming sword. The look he shot sideways at the demon was enough to bring Satan himself to his knees.

“Don’t think I will, thank you,” said Aziraphale. He began to walk again, away from Crowley.

And why shouldn’t he, all things considered?

The sick feeling was coming back. Images of Josh The Scumbag flashed before Crowley’s eyes: those hands on his arm, his hair, his thigh. Aziraphale laughing and smiling and drinking it all in. The angry, ugly feeling in his stomach began to blister and ooze. Crowley parked in the middle of the street, swung himself out of the car and ran unsteadily over to catch the angel by the arm.

“Look, whatever, you were right, we’re shit at trivia, we shouldn’t have come. Get in, you can go home and ring Josh and live happily ever after with your little nephilim-”

“That’s enough, Crowley. Have I not been humiliated enough for one evening?” Aziraphale said in a dangerously low, even tone that he usually reserved for abusive customers. Crowley almost wished he’d just yelled.

“Oh, I am _ so sorry  _ that I  _ embarrass _ you, angel.”

“That is not what I meant and you know it.”

“Leave the bastard! He doesn’t deserve you,” yelled a man who had been taking in the scene over his cigarette.

“Oh, sod off,” snapped Crowley.

“No, no, he has a point,” said Aziraphale.

“‘Oh. Oh. So what exactly do you mean, Aziraphale when you say I embarrass-”

“Crowley, I don’t know why you’re here,” said the angel, his voice beginning to quiver, “You’ve been an absolute wretch ever since… since he... Well. If I asked too much of you, then I’m sorry, but frankly, m’not… I’m not the one who should be apologising, given the absolute nightmare this evening has become. So if you’re set on continuing this whole mortifying ordeal, m’afraid you’re going to be disappointed because I would rather discorporate and face Gabriel than have to spend another second around you while you’re like this.”

They stared at one another in different measures of silence. Aziraphale’s lips were tightly pressed together and trembling and it began to fully hit Crowley that it was, in fact, his fault. He glanced at the random man who was now stubbing out his cigarette on the concrete and heading back into the bar. He’d been right. Crowley didn’t deserve Aziraphale. The shame washed over the jealousy like acid.

Crowley took his sunglasses off and stepped forward, his head bowed. Aziraphale’s downcast eyes looked at them, then came up to meet Crowley’s own.

“You’re right… ’ve been a prat.”

“Bit of an understatement,” said Aziraphale.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Hmph.”

“Aziraphale, I’m… Let’s just… we can talk, okay. Just. Let’s get out of here, please. Go somewhere quiet. Anywhere you want to go.” 

Aziraphale said nothing. It wasn’t a no, Crowley noted. Crowley circled around him.

“I have a feeling that crepe place you like will be miraculously open... ”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and tilted his head from one side to the other like he was weighing his options, and out of them, his better judgement was failing him.

“The one near the museum?”

“Tha’s’a one,”

Aziraphale turned, and got in the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen I'm struggle street imagery-wise and I'm running out of trivia question chapter titles with the same answer but at least I only have to think of two more but I'm proud that I am making solid progress and I only have the finale chapter left to write.


	5. In Hamlet, What Spills Itself In Fearing to Be Spilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an angel and a demon make peace, but continue to be terrible at communicating

An angel and a demon sat together in the little Kensington creperie. Aziraphale watched Crowley warming his hands on his coffee cup, staring into the depths of black espresso and not daring to lift his eyes. The journey had passed in relative silence, save for Freddie’s crooning about playing the game of love. It was in that same established silence they sat, waiting for either crepes to appear, or for one to perform the miracle of speech, whichever came first. They jolted as the waitress plonked down their food and left them to it, obviously uncomfortable about the lovers spat that was taking up the whole room and slowly sucking the air out of the place.

Aziraphale’s cutlery clinking against the plate seemed to magnify itself and drown out the soft pop music that was drifting from a radio in the kitchen. The angel was grateful to now have a valid excuse not to talk, given that opening his mouth had so far only lead to tears.

“How are they?” asked Crowley as Aziraphale tucked into the first bite.

“Delicious, thank you,” he said. Truthfully, they were the best thing he had eaten all week. Even if the attempt at small talk did little to cut the tension of the air, the warm chocolate syrup was like aloe on the evening’s emotional burns. Part of him still wanted to fall forward and cry on the table, to just let out all of the pent up frustration, exhaustion and hurt that had been prickling at his chest. He knew he’d been through wars and famine, smiting and floods. It seemed silly to be emotionally defeated by his friend being a bit mean, but here they were.

Crowley finally broke away from his staring contest with the coffee and looked into the angel’s eyes. His brow wrinkled slightly as he seemed to make a decision. Grabbing his fork, Crowley silently started to spoon strawberries from his plate onto Aziraphale’s mountain of crepes.

“Don’t want them,” said Crowley. “Too sweet.”

Aziraphale felt his icy countenance melt just a touch. It wasn’t much, but it was a small peace offering; Crowley had been very insistent that he get extra, and had threatened the waitress about what would happen if the kitchen forgot.

“Nd’Mmsssorry,” mumbled Crowley, dumping the last strawberry onto the plate. It was so quiet and inarticulate, it could have passed for a quiet sneeze.

“What was that, dear?” asked Aziraphale. The demon was going to have to do better than that.

“I was being a wanker.”

“Yes, well, you have been rather...”

“Watch it.”

“Venomous.” Old serpent.

“Didn’t… Didn’t like the way he was talking to you. Slimy bastard.”

“Yes, well. Neither did I. I thought I could handle him myself, but then he- he wouldn’t leave.”

“Mmm. You were flirting back.”

“No! I was flattered, but we were having such a nice conversation that I... took the compliment and got back to talking about Byron. I just… Wait, Crowley,” said Aziraphale as he came to a realisation, “were you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridi-- Jealous? Listen to yourself. ‘M’not jealous, angel.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at the demon, who was squirming in his chair and muttering things that sounded suspiciously like “ridiculous” and “not jealous” to himself. He pulled sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on.

“You are,” gasped Aziraphale, delighted.

“M’not.”

“Oh, lord. That explains a lot.”

Crowley had always been protective. It was part of the arrangement, after all. _Lend a hand when needed_. Aziraphale suspected he’d only grown more possessive since the - ah - disorporation incident. Paranoid of losing him again.

“Drop it. Aziraphale, please… I’m sorry about how this went down. Don’t make me say it again,” pleaded Crowley. He seemed painfully aware that Aziraphale hadn’t yet accepted a single apology.

Aziraphale had, in truth, mostly forgiven him, but having a demon at your mercy was a delicious feeling. He pursed his lips.

“Oh, very well, then. I might forgive you,” said Aziraphale in mock resignation, “if I can have the rest of yours.”

“You bastard,” said Crowley fondly, pushing his barely touched plate over to Aziraphale’s side of the table.

* * *

“Point is,” said Crowley as he swerved around a Ford hatchback, “point is… Eggs.”

“What about eggs?” asked Aziraphale, digging his nails into the Bentley’s leather.

“All these people 'round the world think they hatched from eggs.”

“What the hell are you talking about, dear boy? Humans give live birth, you idiot, they all know that.”

“Yeah, well, obviously, I was there, too, you know.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his brow.

“Remember? Eve? Pregnant? My fault? Don’t patronise me, angel.”

“Your fault? No wonder Cain turned out the way he did.”

“No, ngk - not like that, obviously not like that. Didn’t make an Effort back then anyway.”

_Back then._

“Oh, right, do forgive my ignorance. I truly am the foolish one in this thrilling conversation about people hatching from eggs.”

Crowley wiggled his head in mockery before steamrolling on. “Anyway! Everyone believing the egg thing; there’s a word for- MOVE IT, GRANDPA - there’s a word for it - OH FUCK YOU, TOO - for when separate things evolve the same way without having any link to one another. Con-something…? Convention? Combustive??”

“Concurrent?”

“Nah, ‘snot it… Con…. con…. Doesn’t matter. Anyway. Tons of old cultures, instead of like… believing in Her, all came up with - fucking cyclists, GET A CAR YOU WANKER, ACTUALLY, GO TO BED IT’S FUCKING MIDNIGHT - anyway tons of people had the idea the Earth hatched from an egg. How does the whole world just collectively decide the world started with an egg? Where is the egg supposed to have come from?”

“Good an explanation as any, I suppose. Crowley, watch the road!”

“I am watching the road,” said Crowley, pointedly looking at Aziraphale and not the road. “Anyway. You know what they all draw with the egg?”

Aziraphale raised his brows waiting for the answer.

“Me.”

“You?” said Aziraphale flatly.

“Yeah. Snake wrapped 'round it,” he grinned. “Nice to be appreciated in some creation stories. Tha’s my point.”

Aziraphale scoffed, which turned into a gasp as Crowley weaved between several cars and came to a screaming halt outside the bookshop. Aziraphale realised he was clenching his jaw and his knuckles were white from gripping the seat. He rolled his head around in a circle to loosen himself up.

Pleasantly tipsy and warm all over, his brain had started back up whispering about that moment in the bar where a demon had wrapped his arms around him. His breath hitched. He looked over to Crowley, whom he realised was gazing at him from behind sunglasses, waiting for Aziraphale to make the next move. His heart fluttered. Suddenly the interior of the Bentley seemed smaller, more intimate than it had a few seconds ago.

“I never said thank you,” said Aziraphale, “for the rescue.”

“Don’t-”

“I want to. We’re allowed to help each other now.”

“‘S’nothing angel. Besides it was my idea.”

“What do you mean ‘your idea’?”

“The… rescue plan.”

Aziraphale let that confession wash over his heart: that it was possible Crowley had enjoyed himself too much _._ The demon was always one for theatrics. He may have gone a little too method this time; let himself get convinced the act was real and gotten carried away. The jealousy, the confrontation; those were the words of a vexed spouse, not a put-out friend.

“I thought you were angry at me because you felt forced into that boyfriend act and it made you uncomfortable.”

“Ah. Yeah. Wasn’t uncomfortable. About that, I mean. Sorry.”

Aziraphale looked at him.

“Was never mad at you, angel. Mad at.. Mad at me.”

The angel bridged the gap between them, reaching over and gently lifting Crowley’s glasses off his face. Crowley choked out an inarticulate noise but otherwise didn’t protest.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “It’s a good thing you came up with it. He, ah, didn’t believe me when I told him.”

“What?”

“I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised; I wasn’t doing a great job of convincing him. Angels can’t lie.”

“Right,” said Crowley in a voice that still carried all 6000 years of reverence of a demon for an angel who lied to God Herself.

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale felt his cheeks warm. “I suppose I’m just trying to say it makes me feel a bit better knowing you made the decision to endure all of this and it wasn’t me, ah, forcing your hand.”

“Yeah, well, he was a prick. Gonna make sure he gets the full treatment downstairs. Desk duty, corporeal torture, the works. Introduce him to Hastur personally, if I have to…”

“I’m not sure I would wish Hastur on my worst enemy.”

Crowley paused. “Aren’t I your worst enemy?”

“Technically speaking, yes.”

“Technically? Don’t tell me there’s someone else, angel.”

“Oh, not this again,” Aziraphale scolded. There was no weight to his words; he was rather betrayed by the big, dumb smile plastered on his lips. “You need to keep your jealousy in check, dear boy.”

“I am not-”

“Jealous. Yes, of course not. I was going to ask, ah… what the plan was.”

“Plan?”

“For next week. We are going, are we not?”

“O-of course.”

“Then I would rather like to know how we are supposed to act when Josh’s team shows up with the idea that we are, ah, together.”

“Ngghk.”

“Like it or not, you set rather a strong precedent with that display tonight, Crowley. I mean,” Aziraphale caught himself staring at Crowley’s parted lips, “are we, supposedly, a very public couple?”

“I mean, we’re a couple that only exists in public.”

“Oh, hush. You know what I mean. Affectionate. You seem to think so,” added Aziraphale slyly.

Crowley stuttered a string of unintelligible sounds that could possibly have been SOS in Morse code. Alarm bells went off in Aziraphale’s head. This was it. This was the line, he had crossed it.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry, I hope I’m not going overboard with all of this; it’s just, I keep getting so worked up over the idea that he’ll be there when I go back. I keep seeing his face, feeling his hands on me. But I don’t want him to win. I don’t want to be driven out of a place just because some human has strayed from the light. Hence, the Plan.”

“What _plan_ \- and don’t you say ineff-,”

“ _Our_ Plan. For if he tries again. I just think it’s better for us to both agree first so this… misunderstanding doesn’t happen again. Make a new sort of… Arrangement. Of course, if you don’t want to-”

“I want to.”

Crowley’s face was next to his face. Aziraphale’s breath was hitching, breathing in Crowley’s own, hot against his lips. Aziraphale’s hand reached up to caress a sharp cheek, rough with light stubble. They were nose to nose. Aziraphale's eyes slipped down from molten gold eyes to pink lips. Crowley's parted. His heart dropped. 6000 years. 6000 of careful distance. 6000 years of secret drinks and secret conversations, of secret meetings with careful pretenses in alternate rendezvous locations where they dare not stand too close. 6000 years of distance closed in seconds. Aziraphale realised Crowley had started to hold his breath, waiting for Aziraphale to make the first move. All at once, it was too much.

“Thank you for the crepes,” he said, before getting out of the car and hurrying to the bookshop, still holding Crowley’s sunglasses in one hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to extend this by a chapter because I think a 'Crowley Panics For A Week' chapter might help bind this chapter to the ending I have started lol


	6. Q6: What Is "The Green Eyed Monster", And Which Play This Phrase Is Taken From?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back for some Crowley POV and our demon boy is not having a good time in this fic, I am so sorry.

Crowley lay spread-eagle on top of his black, Egyptian cotton sheets, thinking about how they were nowhere near soft enough for the dent they left in his bank account. (The fact that his bank account was self-replenishing was rather beside the point.) He had been like this for the better part of 40 minutes, staring at the ceiling and doing his best to think about literally anything but the oppressive blanket of misery he was currently swathed in, comprised of a patchwork of unfortunate events and even more unfortunate choices. Oh yes, he had worked so hard throughout the night, tearing apart potential joyful moments and slip-stitching them back together with a double thread of self sabotage. His attempt to not feel his feelings was failing, for the most part. His stomach twisted as he remembered yelling something about nephilim as if that was ever an okay thing to bring up with an angel.

“Arghh sssstupid. Stupid. Stupid fucking piece of… Nghk. Fuck my whole life.”

Crowley reached over, grabbed one of his many throw pillows, and began to gently smother himself.

He awaited the embrace of death by either embarrassment or asphyxiation, whatever came first. Several seconds passed, then a minute, then he realised that, fuck, right, oxygen has to actually be mandatory for that to actually work. Embarrassment it would have to be. The demon groaned as he scrunched his face up and cradled the pillow tighter, blocking his ears with it in an attempt to drown out as many senses as possible. He had never cursed his flair for imagination as much as he did in that moment when his brain took that as a cue to flash a memory of a distraught angel before his eyes, wobbly-voiced and ball-fisted. “ _ I would rather discorporate and face Gabriel than spend another minute around you while you’re like this _ .”

Crowley let out a muffled string of noises masquerading as a sentence that may or may not have originated as “don’t blame you, ange.l”

Oh, and then the car, don’t get him started on in the car! Aziraphale had taken his glasses off, and in a way it felt like he had been undressed. Off went that thin layer protecting the world from seeing everything that Crowley keeps tucked out of sight. Time to sit around with all your ugly bits exposed. Thanks, angel, for that one. Angel…

He could still feel Aziraphale’s fingertips on his cheek if he concentrated hard enough, still feel the burning and tingling on his cheek, the thrill of being touched by an angel. His own face had been close enough to the angel’s to smell the musky lower notes of Aziraphale’s cologne, an ancient bottle of Acqua Di Parma, if Crowley had any guess, dabbed on his pulse points. He could still see the little nervous tics. A pink angelic tongue briefly gracing divine parted lips. One free hand planted firmly on a brown trouser leg, squeezing into plush thigh. The tension in the air stretched to breaking point as he waited for Aziraphale to close the distance. And all too suddenly, it was over. And the bastard had the nerve to pinch his glasses while he was at it. Left him there feeling more naked than he has ever felt in his life, and Crowley lived in ancient Rome.

A sick feeling gripped his throat and he had the urge to shed his own skin, shuffle off his corporation entirely. He cursed aloud. It was only 60 years ago they sat in that same car, on that same block in Soho, talking about things without saying them. (Crowley thought about how they should go on  _ Strictly _ . They would be champions of unmatched skill, given their 6000 years of dancing around the subject.) He remembered watching Aziraphale run when it all got too close for comfort. He thought, wretchedly, about how much time they had spent running like rats on a treadmill, or whatever the expression was. Running, running running. Never going anywhere. He was exhausted. Something had to give. 

On a good day, Crowley could tell you that Aziraphale needs time to weigh up and justify the decisions he is about to make, carefully “um” and “ah” over every painstaking detail and possible mishap until he is ready to be talked into the idea that he actually thought up himself. Crowley could tell you that if it wasn’t done in a way that was just so, if you faltered or missed a step in this careful dance, Aziraphale went headlong into fight or flight. On a good day, Crowley could pick apart the emotional abuse of Heaven, and what that did to you, and couldn’t bring himself to hold Aziraphale’s trauma against him. But Crowley wasn’t having a good day. Crowley, for your information, felt like utter shit. He had been so  _ sure _ he’d done it right this time, and yet, here we was. Alone. So instead, the demon surfaced from underneath his feather-down face shield, and said:

“Alexa, too fast.”

The room dimmed.

Pink and red light flooded out from the smart bulbs in his bedside lamps. The sound of a gentle electric guitar washed over him.

_ Thought of you as my mountain top, _

_ Thought of you as my peak, _

_ Thought of you as everything _

_ I’ve had but I couldn’t keep… _

_ Linger on _

_ Your pale blue eyes. _

He lay there for quite some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left, and it's 2000 words to make up for the fact this one is short


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their conversation petered out, leaving nothing but charged air between them for several moments.  
> “Is it alright if I-“ started Crowley gesturing to the empty seat, just as Aziraphale said “Oh, do sit down, my dear,” at the same time.  
> Crowley draped himself in the chair opposite. Any coolness was betrayed by the fact it was all far too deliberate to seem fully relaxed. He looked like he’d tried to curate his limbs to behave normally. He might have pulled this off, had his limbs behaved normally at the best of times.  
> “We need to talk. About last week.”  
> "Yes, I rather think we do..."
> 
> OR
> 
> An angel and a demon quit pining and take up communicating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is ready for some COMMUNICATION

The pub was beginning to come to life. A group of workmates took up the largest table in the place and were venting to one another about That Bitch Donna From Accounts (she had apparently treated herself to a lovely new wardrobe and a stay at the Shangrila, courtesy of the company card). Three tradesmen with concrete-covered boots and high-vis shirts laughed loudly from the bar and knocked back their first beer of the night. A few groups of well-groomed young men in designer clothes, sometimes accompanied by women dressed in fashionably dated clothing, were scattered throughout the place as the craft beer and cocktails in strange glasses attracted a certain hipster crowd. Most notable among the motley crew was a man with a halo of white curls sitting alone against the far wall, pretending to be very interested in his coffee and not-so-furtively glancing at the door every minute or so.

A woman at a nearby table cast an annoyed glance as the  _ bump-bump-bump-bump-bump _ of Aziraphale’s shaky leg hitting the table interrupted whatever it was that had her glued to her phone. He smiled at her politely, before his face dropped and his leg went back to its insistent little dance. He couldn’t quite decide whether to hold his coffee or clasp his hands in front of him. 

A sigh escaped the angel’s lips as he took stock of the people around him; he couldn’t help but feel a bit silly and out of place when he compared himself to the pub’s demographic. Still, before the, ah,  _ incident _ , they had agreed they were coming back, and Aziraphale was keeping his appointment, if only out of curiosity. The devil on his shoulder, if an angel were able to have such a thing, also whispered bitter things about it being  _ leverage _ if Crowley didn’t show up.  _ I showed up, where were you? Running off again! _ Aziraphale banished these thoughts. No. That wasn’t really how he felt.

If 6000 years had passed in the blink of an eye, this week passed like a snail migrating from Beijing to Helsinki on a glacier moving in the opposite direction. He’d re-shelved every book in the entire shop to be numerically organised by the number of times the word “it” appeared. (The customers had cracked the last code and had started to make purchases again. He prayed that this would be the thing that made them give up for good this time.) 

He’d tried the new café that has just opened up across the road, but he found eating there rather lost its spark without a certain serpent to make fun of the fact they served milkshakes in light bulb glasses. He’d gone antiquing, went to his (long-suffering) manicurist, walked around St James’s park until he saw someone in need of a light miracle (a young boy with a cast on his arm who was about to make a remarkably quick recovery), learnt to use Wikipedia, caught up on all of his reading, had himself fitted for a new day suit that he probably would never wear, and once when he was  _ really _ out of things to do, he rang Anathema to see how she was getting on. She was confused. They had not stayed in touch.

He almost wished the men in suits would send more of their goons to demand to buy the shop. It would be some excitement at least. Aziraphale lingered on the thought a while as he stared, unfocused, in the direction of the empty stage, remembering the last time the thugs showed up and realised that, no, he didn’t really want excitement at all. He wanted  _ normalcy _ . Domesticity. He wanted-

“You’ve had your nails done,” said a voice behind him.

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale turned around to face the demon hovering behind him.

“You got colour on them this time,” he said, and mumbled something that vaguely resembled English, something that may have been  _ they look nice _ . Aziraphale knew better than to ask him to repeat himself.

“Yes, well, I needed a bit of a uh… pick me up. Indulge in some… What do they call it?”

“Vanity?”

“Self-care.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You own more face masks than I do, dear.”

Crowley mumbled something about how being part snake dried out his skin. Their conversation petered out, leaving nothing but charged air between them for several moments.

“Is it alright if I-“ started Crowley gesturing to the empty seat, just as Aziraphale said “Oh, do sit down, my dear,” at the same time.

Crowley draped himself in the chair opposite. Any coolness was betrayed by the fact it was all far too deliberate to seem fully relaxed. He looked like he’d tried to curate his limbs to behave normally. He might have pulled this off, had his limbs behaved normally at the best of times.

“We need to talk. About last week.”

“Yes… I rather think we do. Crowley, I’m… I’m so sorry. I understand if you’re upset with me…”

“Angel.”

“I was just… confused. And swept up in the moment. I shouldn’t have-”

“Angel, stop apologising. I get it. It’s fine.”

There was a pregnant pause. Aziraphale studied the redhead opposite him. He had apparently acquired a new pair of sunglasses and what could be seen of his face was carefully neutral. Guarded, Aziraphale decided. That needed to change before they could address the elephant in the room.

“Drinks?” asked Aziraphale.

“Yeah, good idea.”

“Any preference?”

“Whatever you think is drinkable. Here.”

With a minor struggle, Crowley awkwardly pulled a snakeskin wallet out of his skin tight pants - were they always this tight? - and handed Aziraphale a black credit card. Aziraphale took it from him and turned away, smiling.

Aziraphale collected the bottle of wine but found himself accosted by a young lady who caught him gently by the arm. Aziraphale looked at the wrinkle in the fabric of his sleeve disapprovingly before turning an enquiring eye to her.

“Hey, ‘scuse me. Sorry. Your friend over there, is he, ah, spoken for?”

A pang of something Aziraphale didn’t want to name hit him right in the gut. He gritted his teeth before gathering himself.

“I’m afraid he is,” he smiled. It was not a comforting smile. It was a smile in the way that dogs ‘smile’: sweet on first perception before reality sets in that this is in fact an animal baring its teeth to its victim. His suddenly voice seemed to hold the whispers of three other echoing voices as he said firmly: “You will leave now.”

Her eyes gently unfocused and she muttered something about needing to check if she had left the stove on. (It would come as a surprise to her later when she got back to her hotel room and remembered that she did not, in fact have a kitchen.)

* * *

Aziraphale handed a glass of red to the demon before pouring out a rather generous glass for himself.

“Best I could find among their selection, I’m afraid.”

Crowley flicked his tongue out into the glass when he thought Aziraphale wasn’t watching to smell it better, tasted it, then made an appreciative face.

“Mmm. Nah, it’s good. Like a good cab-sav. Better than that one we had on the ship back in..?”

“1672. Oh, lord, I’d forgotten about that.”

“Repress it, did you?”

“Yes. I’m of a mind to say that they had replaced the wine with vinegar before recorking it. I don’t know what else I was expecting from pirates, honestly.”

“Oi, I got treated better by the pirates than your lot,” he said, waving his wine glass in Aziraphale’s direction. If there was a miracle that kept it from slopping onto the table, neither of them acknowledged it. “Bloody red coats. Anyway. What did that girl want?”

“Girl?”

“There was a girl. After you ordered. Grabbed you. You had that look you get when a customer attempts to buy anything. Y’alright? Don’t need to find her do I?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. She wanted to know if we were together.”

“Ah.”

Crowley’s eyebrows narrowed, before Aziraphale said, “Don’t worry yourself, I said yes and sent her on her way. Arrangement and all…”

“Mm. I’d be more worried about you ‘sending her on her way’.”

“Oh, nonsense, she’s fine. Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to talk to you... About the current Arrangement. The one we talked about in the car last week.”

In the car before he ran for the hills as if he was being chased by a pack of wild geese on a mission from Hell. That Arrangement.

“What about it?”

“I’ve changed my mind. Rather, I’ve decided I don’t want to keep up the charade.”

“Yeah, probably a good idea. Didn’t exactly bring out the best in us last time, did it?”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, glancing around nervously before fixing his gaze on the demon. “I mean to say, I, ah, want it to be real.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “ _ Oh. _ ”

“Is… is that alri-”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“‘Really’, he says, ‘really?’ Yes, really, you idiot. Been ready for about 70 years, angel.”

“Don’t call me- wait, 70 years!?”

* * *

The night wore on, and they only had answered about one eighth of the film and tv questions, but it didn’t matter. A wise man may have looked upon past events and decided that alcohol was not a recipe for success, but the pair who were giggling at their answer sheet were hardly men to begin with, let alone wise ones.

“What, exactly, is’a point of the show? The premise, I mean?”

“They’re roommates and they all sorta… find a family in one another. ‘S’agood show, angel. Your sorta humans used to love it.”

“I believe you. N’ which ones are us?” said Aziraphale. He looked over to the bit of paper where their answers were supposed to go. Crowley was doodling absentmindedly on it.

“I’m Dorothy. You’re Rose.”

The demon hadn’t ever shown his drawings to the angel, but Aziraphale knew that in the time spent with Da Vinci, he had picked up a thing or two. He could make out four faces at the bottom of the page of older looking women.

“Which one is she?”

“The stupid, blonde one.”

“I beg your pardon,” sniffed Aziraphale. “I happen’ta be very intelligent, thank you.”

“You are blonde though,” Crowley reasoned. “Rose is kind, with a bitchy streak.”

“I’m not convinced that’s any better.”

“C’mon, that’s you to the core.”

“Who else is there?”

“Blanche, but you are  _ not  _ her, angel. Y’just not.”

“How would you know, dear?”

“Gotta sleep around a bit first to be Blanche.”

“Your point, dear?”

“Ngk,” spluttered Anthony J. Crowley, and promptly made a face like an error 404 message had popped up across his brain.

Aziraphale smiled into his glass of wine, taking a large mouthful, before pausing to appreciate the evening they’d had. They hadn’t won (again), but this time it  _ really _ didn’t matter. The touches more than made up for it. They weren’t any different to regular touches, not really; a hand on an arm, fingers on fingers as they handed one another the pen, or more money for drinks. The same little spark of electricity that there always had been flared every time, and lingered in the spot where they’d brushed. But this time there was an  _ understanding _ that they weren’t alone. That they were allowed to enjoy it. That much was freeing. This time, there was no tension, no misunderstanding to be had, no yelling on street corners and no tears hitting the pavement in the wake of a fight. Aziraphale tilted his head and eyed Crowley’s chiseled face.

“I’m s’glad that he didn’t come,” said Aziraphale. “Josh, I mean. I can’t help but think this is what last week should have been.”

“You’ll never see him again, angel, don’t worry.”

“Please tell me you didn’t summon Hastur.”

“Nah… If he happened to fall ill and decide he needed some country air, is that really my fault?”

“You serpent.”

Aziraphale felt the deja vu hit him square in the chest as his hand reached up to caress a sharp cheek, rough with light stubble. As once again his eyes slipped down from molten gold eyes to pink lips. And once again, they were nose to nose, and he could sense the demon’s hesitation as he gasped in Aziraphale’s own warm breath. Six thousand years of memories flashed before his eyes to the rhythm of his beating heart.

The memories went like this: A wall, a French prison, an unsinkable ship, a church, a bandstand, a pub.

Instance after instance of Crowley begging that they work together, stay together, run off together, fight together, and with every holier-than-thou refusal, the demon had come back to fight for both of them both time and again, like a planet unable to break free from its orbit around the sun. To save Aziraphale, mostly from himself. Making up his mind, Aziraphale brushed gentle lips to the corner of the demon’s mouth. Barely a press, but all the contact in the world, after years of repression.

And face to face, not daring to move apart from one another, Crowley allowed him to say something that they had never truly allowed themselves to say before without protest.

“Thank you,” whispered the angel. “For the rescue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! It was probably about 4-5 months of slowly writing but we got there! Thank you again to my beta angel, Mira, for cheering me on and being there to catch all my horrid punctuation.
> 
> I do have a couple more things planned for this series including finishing off the origin fic that this fic was a spinoff from. It's sort of an AU of what would have happened if they'd never run into Josh that night. It's very fluffy and silly.
> 
> If you've enjoyed this, please, please let me know in the comments; nothing brings me more joy than seeing notifications for this fic in my inbox.
> 
> Find me in other places. angelsdineattheritz on tumblr, and I'm gildthelilli pretty much everywhere else incl insta, twitter, patreon, kofi (deflowerthelilli on ig if ya nasty; wink wink nudge nudge.),


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